


Places I would never choose

by susurrant



Series: Roads [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Demonic Possession, Dubious Consent, M/M, Slow Build, Unrelated Winchesters, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 20:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4681271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susurrant/pseuds/susurrant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're holed up in a run down cabin somewhere in the middle of Missouri before Dean realizes - <em>that's not John</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Places I would never choose

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a repost of a series I started writing years ago under a different username. I'll start posting the new fics in this series once I get through editing and posting the backlog of the older stuff.

 

* * *

_November 22nd, 2006_

They're holed up in a run down cabin somewhere in the middle of Missouri before Dean realizes -

 _That's not John_.

Everything clicks into place and Dean's body goes numb with shock, the weight of it sinking in. He doesn't know how long John hasn't been himself. But the man standing in front of him now, the thing leaning in so close Dean can feel the scrape of stubble from its jaw against his cheek, that isn't John. He cranes his head back against the wall, as far away as he can get.

"Aw sweetheart," it whispers, "don't be like that. You're my favorite. Well, next to Sammy."

It smiles.

 

* * *

 

_July 25th, 2003_

John watches as Dean pours himself another cup of coffee. They've gone through two pots in the last five hours, the tin is empty and the recycled grinds taste like ash. John is sitting at the kitchen table, news clippings and computer printouts spread out over the table in a messy pile that had started out in some kind of order. More than a few bits have fallen to the floor, paper debris kicked up and left to settle in the wake of last night.

"What does it want us for?"

"I don't know," John says for the third time. Dean probably can't stop himself from asking, hoping for a different answer. "I don't know why or how. But it came for something that night. Mary interrupted it when it came to Sammy, your parents must've done the same. Collateral damage."

He rests his elbows on the table, folds his hands together and digs his thumbs into the very corners of his eyes. Shouldn't be this tired, not after a full night's sleep just yesterday. But Dean is pacing the room, bed to the door to the bathroom and back again and strung out like an addict before the next hit. John's stuck trying to manage him, same way he's been managing since he pulled Dean up off the floor in the filthy rest-stop bathroom and told him his parents had been murdered by a demon.

"What did - Are there others?"

"Yeah, a few," John answers without opening his eyes. Dean had spent the first few hours focused on _How can you know that?_ and _But why me?_ He's moved on to the others, his questions about Sam and Mary grinding a little too close to the bone for John and Dean is too wired up to notice.

"Where? What happened to 'em?"

"They lived. Some of the parents died, but not all."

"Okay, then lets go talk to them. Maybe one of them knows why this is happening, they probably want answers as much as we do. Come on, where's the nearest fire kid?"

"Dean - "

"You can't tell you don't have a list somewhere in that pile. Names, addresses... how many - "

"Dean." They haven't ever talked about this, not in anything other than the vaguest of details. Dean had a vague sketch; the fire, the dark figure, and Mary already out of reach. John had spent the night filling in the ugly details, Mary's death serving as a mirror image of how it must have gone for Dean's parents. And the details all match, at least as far as Dean knows from his foster kid file.

John's always known there were other kids out there, hard to miss when you're researching nursery fires. But he's never much cared, anyone that'd been affected was already in the rearview mirror and the thing that did it had already moved on. The ones targeted lived or died, and John found out too late to do anything about it. He'd focused instead on the other signs - the weather patterns, the electrical storms that followed the demon around like flies.

Dean's not wrong, it's possible that these kids might know something, but after twenty years on its trail it's hard to admit that he's maybe been chasing down the wrong path. _The fire kids_ , Dean calls them. A twisted baptism that leaves each one dark and hardened.

God, he hopes not.

"Okay," John says finally. Pushes aside his notes until he can dig out his journal. "Nearest I've got is Scott Carey. Grew up in Indiana, no idea if he still lives there."

Dean rubs his palms together and looks at John like he can't believe he got his way. "Okay. Okay yeah, lets go."

They're packed and in the car in a matter of minutes, Dean shoving all the notes back into the ratty envelope and tossing them on the bench seat between them. John cranks up the radio, can't stand the silence and doesn't want to deal with more questions, not tonight. Dean gets the idea, pokes through the envelope carefully reading and re-reading every clipping.

The roster of fire kids reads like a list of the damned and dispossessed. Entry one is Sam Winchester; mother dead before he could walk and a shotgun in his hands before his voice had dropped. The last entry is Dean. But in between is a record spanning generations.

It starts in the early 70s, the earliest records John can find that match. A rash of electrical storms coinciding with house fires, all families with newborns. Two, three weeks out of the hospital newborns, and that had thrown John at first - taken him years to piece together the related pieces out of thousands of tragedies that just didn't quite fit the mold. He was sure, now. Whatever it was it was doing, the demon had started out with even younger kids.

All of them had died within weeks of the fire; all with unexplained illnesses and sketchy diagnoses.

The survival rate improved slightly in the next batch. The success didn't last. Of the eleven children targeted in '75, only two had lived to adulthood. Three had set themselves on fire, barely old enough to be in kindergarten, five more had been committed at around the same age, evidence of horrific crimes stacked up against them and a shuffled into a system incapable of handling them.

The two still left alive were both in long term care for severe mental illness. The diagnoses were as varied and as unhelpful as John could expect. Psychosis, multiple personalities, schizophrenia; a buffet table of disorders to pick and choose. John hadn't been able to get access to any of them, but he'd talked to enough of the former nurses and guards to know that not all the hallucinations had been entirely in the kids’ heads. Bad shit followed these kids around like a shadow, either caused by them or channeled through them.

It's not until the early 80s that the kids started reliably living to adulthood, safe and mostly sane. There are a few outliers that throw the curve, but the overall pattern is clear; whatever the demon is doing differently, it was a matter of degree, not inclination.

He doesn't tell Dean any of this. As far as Dean is concerned, his generation was the first and John has no other clues to go on. He keeps the list of the dead folded up and hidden in his wallet behind one of his few remaining pictures of Mary.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Scott Carey is too pale and too thin. He rubs his hands together and then shoves them in his pockets, looking around like he expects someone to jump out any second as he leaves the house. John and Dean are sitting in the car about half a block down from where Scott lives with his father.

"Well, that's reassuring. Fuck, please tell me we're not all friggin' rejects."

"Sammy's at Stanford."

"Yeah, but we both know you were 'roiding his wheaties or something. Kid's a giant, with a giant head. Those of us who grew up without special Winchester benefits need a morale booster here." Dean waves his hand at Scott, making his way down the street with his shoulders hunched and head jerking around trying to look in every direction at once. "Think he's a tweaker?"

"Could be."

"Looks like a tweaker."

John chooses not to mention that up until a year ago, Dean didn't look much different. "Let’s find out."

They call the house line and when no one picks up, John figures it's safe enough to slip inside for a quick look around. They cut through the neighbor's lawn and slip in the back, nice neighborhood like this and no one bothers too much with heavy duty locks, so John stands watch and lets Dean get in a little practice with the pick. It only takes a few seconds, Dean is getting better at it faster than John can track.

The house looks normal enough, cheap and worn furniture but well kept. Boring middle class with a side serving of plaid. Scott's room is a different story. There are clothes piled everywhere, dirty dishes stacked on the dresser and a tangle of video game wires trailing from the tv to the bed.

"Huh. Life without complimentary housekeeping service."

"More like life on mind altering drugs," John says and nods towards the side of the bed.

The nightstand has a miniature pharmacy of little orange pill bottles on it. Sedatives, anti-depressants... anti-psychotics. Shit.

Dean picks up one of the bottles to examine it and John watches him. "Awesome," he says and shoves the bottle back on the table. "So where's the finger painting of the clown strangling puppies or whatever it is crazy people are supposed to do?"

The room does look otherwise normal. Messy, but in a typical young guy way; the way John's first apartment looked before he and Mary'd gotten their first place. Dean is already half under the bed, pulling out shoes and dusty magazines but nothing shocking. Dean starts wriggling out from under the bed and John turns away to open the closet. He stops dead.

"Man, I'd steal his porn but it's crap. Hey I think I found something. What- "

Dean scrambles out from under the bed, dragging something with him and stands up.

John hears the second Dean sees it, a sharp intake of breath and the floorboards creak as he stops walking. He wants to look back, check on Dean but he can't tear his eyes away from the sight of dozens of bright yellow eyes staring back at him, plastered all over the back of the closet wall. John hears Dean take a couple of steps back, the soft thunk as his heels hit the bed and he sits down hard.

"Mister Mayor," he says, and John finally snaps out of it and turns around.

"Who?"

"Mister Mayor. He- oh crap. Nevermind." There's an unbelievable second when he thinks Dean is going to try to brush it off and move on, but Dean clears his throat and goes on. "When I was really little, I had these dreams. This guy came to me, he always looked different but it was always the same guy, you know? He'd tell me how to do things, stupid stuff, like. How to con the teacher into giving me an extra cookie, or how to climb out my window to the tree outside. I forgot about him.

"He had yellow eyes," Dean says, almost an afterthought, nodding towards the closet.

"It was the demon." It could have been just a kid's harmless dream, maybe. But _he looked different but it was always the same guy, you know?_ The demon, slipping inside Dean's head when he was young and getting kicked around in the foster system. "And he just left?"

Dean swallows. "Yeah. I just stopped having those dreams, no warning. Nothing."

John can't help feeling like they've dodged a bullet. If those dreams had continued, then what? Dean would've ended up like Scott, worse probably; no family to care for him he would've ended up dead in the street somewhere before long. But John's still waiting for the other shoe to drop, no one just walks away from the demon's plans scot-free.

He wonders if Sam ever dreams about a yellow-eyed man.

  

* * *

  

_November 17th, 2006_

_Sammy is tough and smart, sure. But Dean? Dean is_ _**adaptable**_ _._

_I gotta say, John, I like him; never thought he'd amount to much but then he just kept soldiering on. Good boy. Then he bumped into you and you've been training him up real nice, thanks for that. Strange coincidence, isn't it, you running into him in that bar all those years ago?_

_Life is funny that way, sometimes._

 

* * *

  

_August 1st, 2003_

John books it out of Lafayette, Indiana over Dean's objections.  "We didn't even talk to the guy!"

"The kid's out of his mind, you think anything he says is going to be useful to us? We'd be wasting our time. There are others, we'll find them."

The truth is, John doesn’t want Dean within spitting distance of Scott Carey, not if he can help it. The box that Dean had pulled out from under Carey's bed had turned out to contain the extra-crispy remains of a house cat. Dean had gingerly closed the lid and shoved it back under the bed. Yellow Eyes was in Carey’s head, stirring up god knows what kinds of trouble, and for whatever reason right now Dean has a pass on that. No reason to go poking at their good luck.

Dean still looks unconvinced, but he doesn't push it. He pulls the thick envelope out of the dashboard and starts flipping through until he finds the abbreviated list of kids. "Alright then, who's next?"

"There's one in West Virginia. I don't remember the town - see if you can find her on the list."

Dean rifles through the stack of clippings and notes. "Nimmi Proctor. Buckhannon, West Virginia."

"Looks like we're going to Buckhannon." John guns the engine and sends up a quick prayer that Nimmi is a nice, normal girl.

 

* * *

 

 

On the surface, at least, Nimmi looks like a normal enough girl.

She’s a college kid, lives in an apartment just off campus with a couple roommates and wears those knit ponchos that remind John of the 70s and the smell of patchouli. But normal enough. She and her friends all head out late one Friday night, dressed up and already looking a little tipsy. Dean catches the door to the building before it closes as they leave, young enough to pass for a fellow college kid, and lets John in a few minutes later once the coast is clear.

They've both got building code inspector badges clipped to their shirts. Dean is barely old enough to pull it off, John figures if anyone asks he'll tell them Dean is in training or some bullshit.

The apartment is unapologetically girly. Dean stands in the middle of the combo kitchen/living room looking like he's afraid to touch anything. There are posters of actors and bands on the walls, scarves and cutesy pillows on every flat surface, and a life-sized cardboard cutout of some big name actor. There’s a pink knit scarf wrapped around his neck.

"So, we're not gonna stay long right? I think I can feel my testicles trying to crawl back inside just looking at this."

"Focus, Dean. We need to check Nimmi's room and then we're out of here."

"You mean we need to check Nimmi's closet for any creepy art projects," Dean mutters.

John’s about to fire back a response but another voice interrupts.

"What are you doing here?"

They both spin around and see Nimmi standing just inside the apartment, looking furious.

"I'm calling the cops," she says but doesn't make any move towards the phone. John looks at her, and at the closed door behind her. He didn't even hear it open. Dean is already busy trying to pitch their cover.

"Please just listen, ma'am. We're building code inspectors, working for the county. We've had some complaints about - "

"You're lying,” she says simply. “Why were you going to look in my room?"

Nimmi still hasn't moved, and there's something about the way she's standing that's bugging the hell out of John. He's missing something big here, and if he could just figure it out then their lack of a good reason to be here might just be irrelevant.

Dean still hasn't stopped talking, trying to cover for John who’s still standing there silent.

"Okay, you got us. We're undercover. There's a serial killer that's been targeting young people like yourself, we have a couple of questions for you if we could have just a moment of your time. Have you had any contact with a man with, uh, strange looking eyes?"

Nimmi takes a quick step backwards, strappy heels clacking on the wood flooring and it hits John.  She doesn't have a shadow. The only light on is the harsh fluorescent one on the kitchen ceiling, leaving dark, distinct shadows behind everything but Nimmi. John reaches forward, hunter's instinct overriding the concern that she'll bolt. And touches nothing.

They all pause.

"You're dead," Dean says blankly.

"I am not." She sounds almost offended at the suggestion. Folds her arms over her chest and rolls her eyes. "Astral projection, ever heard of it? I could feel you yahoos breaking into my apartment and I came to check it out."

"So, you can - Wait, where the hell is your body?"

"Like I'm going to tell you. I'm still waiting for an explanation, by the way."

"You've seen the yellow-eyed man, haven't you?" John takes over the questioning; Dean is still standing there eying Nimmi like he expects her to dissolve at any moment.

Nimmi shrugs. "Maybe. So?"

"In dreams or in real life?"

"Maybe both. If you're looking for him, I can't help you. Haven't seen him in months. Not like we're BFFs or anything, but I'd totally buy that the guy is nuts. He kept talking about a coming war and how I was chosen or some bullshit."

"Then what?"

"Then _nothing_ , I haven't seen him in forever. I figured he was a dreamwalker or something, maybe he got stuck in someone else's head."

 _Not likely_ , John thinks.

Dean steps forward and leans against the kitchen island. "How long have you been able to," he waves a hand, "project yourself?"

"That's not really any of your business. Now look, I've got nothing against the whole X-Files thing you two've got going on here, but I don't want to be any part of your little freak investigation. So just a heads up, my body called the cops about three minutes ago, so you might want to hustle off before you end up spending the night in jail.

“And guys?  Don’t ever come back. I’ll know if you do.”

  

* * *

 

Dean spends the next sixty miles staring intently at the dashboard. John is lost in his own thoughts, wondering what the hell the demon wants kids with special abilities for and whether or not Sam and Dean have any he just hasn't noticed yet. Nimmi is about the same age as Sam, only a year and change older than Dean and that means shit could start hitting the fan any day now.

What bothers him more is why the demon seems to have gone quiet in the past few months. It hasn't contacted Nimmi and John hasn't picked up on any of the signs or omens that usually follow the demon's movements. Which is why it takes him a while to realize what Dean is doing, or trying to do.

John slams on the breaks and the tires squeal as he pulls over.

"Dean, goddammit! Are you stupid?" He gives Dean's shoulder a hard smack and the kid jumps, blinks at John like he can't remember where he is.

" _Jesus_ , what?"

"Astral projection isn't something you mess around with. It's sure as fuck not something you try in a moving car. What if you couldn't find your body again? What if you couldn't get back in once you'd left? Did you even think about that?"

"Uh."

"Bad answer."

"I just wanted to see. It'd be useful as all hell on a hunt."

"First rule of hunting, kid. You're not useful if you're dead. You're not trying that shit again."

"Fine."

"Say it."

"Fine, I won't try to use my super special mutant powers that I may or may not even have."

"Good enough."

Of course Dean doesn't let it go that easily. "But you have connections right? You know people that might know something about this stuff, could maybe help me out."

"No."

"It's like a superpower. You can't say no to a superpower."

"You can when there’s a demon coming after kids with superpowers."

"Right. But-"

"Dean. We're not talking about this."

 

* * *

 

The next name on the list is Ryan Anders, who turns out to be a street hustler running small money scams on the one-way side streets of New York. Dean and John stand back to watch the crowd, transfixed at the elaborate display as Ryan flips and twirls the cheap plastic cups, scrambles them around until even John has lost track of which cup has the marble in it.

Ryan slams the cups back down with a flourish and a cocky tilt of his head, broadcasting -   _try me, I dare you -_ to the audience.

A young woman steps forward and then hesitates, finger swinging back and forth between the cups. She takes a breath and decides, jabs a finger at the cup on the left and bites her lip in anticipation. She wins.

"Oh man, you got me girl. Bad luck, I don't think I can let you play anymore, you'd just drive me outta business." He hands over a few crumpled bills and laughs with her friends as she takes them. The next guy who tries isn't nearly so lucky. He loses twice in a row and has to be talked out of a third go by a couple of his friends.

It goes on like that for half an hour, and John has to admire the elegance of the hustle. Ryan lets people win just often enough that everyone keeps trying, eyes on the wad of cash slowly collecting in the shallow cardboard box in front of Ryan's makeshift table. What John can't figure out is how Ryan is tipping the odds; the choice of cup is always up to the audience member, there's no way Ryan has control over that unless he's misleading them somehow. Giving them a glimpse of the marble in the final flourish and then acting surprised and disappointed when he loses a few bucks. He's still racking up a pretty sweet profit.

Eventually the crowd thins out and Ryan packs up his gear, stuffing his winnings deep in a pocket and giving a friendly wave to few stragglers still around. John and Dean tail him from a distance, walking along in a casual stride. Ryan must spot him though, barely a block away and he spins around to look right at them.  John and Dean stop in their tracks.

"Is it just me or do we suddenly suck at the sneaky thing?" Dean says.

"Or he has some ability that made us easier to spot," John answers under his breath. Ryan takes a few steps back towards them.

"You got a problem?"

"Just wanted to ask you a few questions. Are you Ryan Anders?" John asks.

"I might be, depends who’s asking. Are we done? Great." Ryan turns around and starts walking away.

"Hold up, c'mon man, we just want to talk to you," Dean says, running after him.

"Please. We can pay you," Dean offers, and John raises his eyebrows. _We can?_ Dean looks back at John and winces, then shrugs. _Whatever works_.

Ryan grins, warming up to them a little. "Five bucks a question, and if this shit gets weird, I'm walkin'."

Dean pulls out his wallet and blows out a slow breath.

"Okay. Have you ever seen a yellow eyed man? And- " he rushed to finish before Ryan can speak. "If you have, when and what did he say to you?"

"First off, I'm counting that as like three questions. Second? No. I haven't seen any 'yellow eyed man' and I don't know any samurai who smells like sunflower seeds neither, in case that was your next question. Now pay up."

Ryan holds out hand, but Dean isn't done.

"How'd you rig the game?"

"Man, I'm not answering that. What, you think I'm stupid?"

"We're not trying to steal your gig, we don't even live in this city. And we’re not cops. But you and I have got something weird in common, and I’m just trying to figure it out. Give me five minutes, tops, and we’ll leave you alone, I swear."

Ryan looks at them closely, sizing up John and then Dean. "I'll talk. But only to him," he nods towards Dean. "You remind me of my old man, and I hate that fucker."

Dean looks back at John, amused. "Okay."

"Dean - "

"Yeah yeah, be careful, look both ways and don't take any candy from strangers. I'll be fine, alright?"

"Yeah man, don't worry. Your boy ain't in any danger with me."

They walk down another side alley and sit down on the concrete steps of an old loading dock. Dean looks up to see John watching from around the corner and waves him off.

John turns away, leans against the crumbling brick and tries to remember why he quit smoking. Now would be a perfect time for a smoke, something to do while he waits so he doesn't look like hobo waiting on the street corner. He looks down at the faded flannel of his shirt and the rips in his jeans, cigarette or no he'd probably still look like a hobo. Mary would've smacked him for leaving the house like this.

Sometimes Dean tells him he looks like a friggin' hick, but since Dean generally goes around looking like rough trade he doesn't have much of a leg to stand on.

Twenty minutes later Dean comes back and Anders is nowhere in sight.

"So?"

"So... " Dean shoves his hands in his back pockets, "he can manipulate chance, or something. He just like, focuses his mind and usually things turn out his way. People don't really have a clue which cup the marble's in, so there's about equal chance they'll pick any one of the three. He changes that, somehow."

"Just by thinking about it?"

"Yeah. I mean, that’s what he says."

They start walking back to the parking garage. Twenty bucks for a few hours, it's freaking highway robbery but there's no way John was leaving the Impala out on the street in the middle of the city. Especially not this city. He’s always hated New York.

Dean is off somewhere else, thinking so loud John can practically hear the gears turning.

"And he's really never seen the Yellow-Eyed demon?"

"Nah, he had no fucking clue what I was talking about. Didn't seem like he was hiding anything either."

"Doesn't fit the pattern."

"Nope, but you know what does? It's looking like Nimmi wasn't the exception, the fire kids have powers. Some of 'em anyway. Must be why the demon is after them, right?"

"We don't know that."

"Uh, yeah we kind of do. It told Nimmi she was special, _chosen_. It must want us for something."

"It ever tell you anything like that?"

There's a hitch in Dean's step that John doesn't miss. "Not really. It was more like, if I could con my way into getting something extra, then I must have deserved it. If I was smart enough, if I was sneaky enough, I could be special. He never said anything about a war, but uh - I was really little, maybe that chapter was a little too heavy for the kiddies."

"Maybe."

"You think Scott had a power?"

"If he did we didn't see it. Or he's too far gone to have any control over it. But I'll tell you one thing, that cat sure as hell didn't kick the bucket from natural causes."

"Yeah."

  

* * *

 

_January 24th 2005_

John watches from his seat as Dean flips the cap off the beer and grins. They’ve spent the past two years tracking down the other fire kids, stopping for any hunt they could find along the way. It’s been a long week of shitty weather - nothing sucks more than trying to dig up a stiff through frozen ground, even with two of them digging. They’re both long overdue for a chance to unwind.

Dean’s got this clunky thrift-shop ring on the second finger of his right hand that he’s using as a bottle opener and an honest-to-god legal Kansas driver’s license with his actual birthday on it tucked away in his wallet.

It’s a belated Christmas miracle, John thinks. The kid actually made it to twenty-one.

“Cheers!” Dean tips his bottle towards the bartender and then drinks until it’s empty. The bartender throws a look over at John, one that says, _I’m holding you personally responsible for this train wreck._

What he doesn’t know is that Dean is already well adept at holding his liquor. John’s not sure what the hell the kid is so excited about anyway. He’s had access to shitty fake IDs for as long as John’s known him. He’s had a _decent_ fake ID since he was at least nineteen.

John thinks he might just be reveling in the novelty of not having to lie about something, for once.

He keeps an eye on Dean, watching for any sign of power brewing; strange dreams or unexplained coincidences. He comes up with nothing. Tells himself he has to stay sharp, not get complacent just because everything has been so quiet and that's why he catches himself watching Dean sleep some nights.

Tonight, Dean falls into bed in drunken, happy sprawl and promptly passes out. He looks impossibly young when he sleeps, the years slip away and he becomes the shivering scared boy clutching a mirror to his chest to keep the spirits at bay. Quieter and calmer now, out of immediate danger but he still sleeps with one hand tucked up under his pillow clutching his Ka-bar and the other tangled in the leather cord of his pendant.

He's put on some weight too, still slim but solid muscle head to toe. The first time Dean manages to flip him and get him in a solid hold in a sparring session John's so surprised all he can do is laugh.

"Getting old, old man."

"I was impaired by all the fumes coming off your head," John pokes a finger into the gelled up spikes of Dean's hair.

"Oy!" Dean's mouth twists into a frown as he runs his fingers through his hair, trying to spike it back up again.

"It's okay, I get it. Trying to make yourself look taller. I gotta say, kid - it's not exactly subtle."

Dean rolls his eyes but doesn't really look all that pissed. He isn't actually all that short and he's long since gotten used to John making fun of his height. John is pretty sure he only has maybe an inch on the kid, but it's not like he's going to tell Dean that any time soon.

  

* * *

  

_November 4th, 2005_

"Dean, get up. Now."

"M'up, I'm awake," Dean mutters. "What, where's the fire?"

“Up now, we’re leaving. You’ve got five minutes.”

John is in the car with the engine running by the time Dean makes it out the door. _He’s okay, Sam’s okay. Bobby would’ve said so if he’d heard anything different_ , is all he can think. They’re somewhere outside of Muskogee, Oklahoma. Seventeen-hundred something miles away from Palo Alto and the only reason John’s not already on a plane right now is that he wouldn’t be able to carry on every weapon he owns. Fat lot of good any of it does for Sam, halfway across the country and a demon that might still be within spitting distance.

Dean lets the first hundred or so miles pass by without a comment, but eventually the kid cracks.

"What happened?"

"Sam."

Dean sits up. "He okay?"

"He's in the hospital. His girlfriend burned."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

  

* * *

 

_November 5th, 2005_

Sammy is asleep, bandaged hands resting on top of the covers. John hovers in the doorway, caught between the need to go into the room and the clawing desire to get the fuck out of there. Sam is pale with dark bruises under his eyes, and there's a shallow gash on his cheek that's been cleaned but not bandaged. The first men on the scene had had to drag Sam out of the house, hands and arms burned and blistering from trying to pull his girlfriend off the ceiling.

She was already long dead by that point, John knows. God, does he know. He wonders if anyone has told Sam yet; if he's woken up long enough for it to sink in, horrible and empty. John's had twenty years to prevent something like this, and he's failed on every level. Sammy is hurt, can't even defend himself and probably doesn't want to, not anymore. But Sam made his choice and John hopes to god he sticks with it, grieves and moves on and stays the hell away from hunting. It's too dangerous; John plans to wade right into the thick of it.

He's been fucking around, distracted by other, lesser evils. Ghost hunts and sad stories of the other fire kids that had managed to survive. That ends now.

He carves sigils into the railings of the hospital bed, tucks a protection charm under the pillow. Sam will recognize it - he's smart. He'll find it, know to keep it with him. John holds his breath and as much as it kills him to see Sammy like this, pale and unconscious, he knows it would be worse if Sam opened his eyes. He can't face Sam's questions, the accusation in his eyes. It's John's fault that Sam is hurting right now, if he'd only been faster, better at tracking down the demon - he could've prevented it.

He can't be here when Sam wakes up.

Dean doesn’t take the news well.

"You're kidding me."

"Dean - "

"No, you've gotta be fucking kidding me! He's hurt, and something is after him, and we're gonna leave him here?"

"Whatever is after him, it doesn't want him dead or he'd be in the ground already." John's voice breaks on that last part but he ignores it. Cold hard facts. "This thing is powerful, it could've killed Jess any way it wanted. But instead it replicated Mary's death exactly. It wants to pull him back in, it's _pushing_ him. The farther away from hunting he is, the better."

"And you don't think maybe he needs his Dad right now? What kind of father are you?"

John snorts. "Because you know so fucking much about family. Shut up and get in the car, Dean. This isn't up for discussion."

Dean looks pissed, eyes flashing with anger and mouth screwed up in a snarl. It's not an emotion John is used to seeing on him; grouchy, snarky, afraid, he's used to all those. But never pure, flat-out anger.

"Not up for discussion," John repeats. "I'm going after this thing, no more fucking around. You're in or you're out, make a choice."

He doesn't have to state the obvious; _if you're in you follow my orders and you don't fucking second guess me_. Dean should know better by now, it’s rule number one with them. John knows he'll remember just as soon as he calms down a bit. Dean stares off to the side, breathing heavily and hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Finally Dean nods.

 

* * *

  

_November 7th, 2006_

_Ever wondered why he still wears those old sweatpants you gave him? I have. He's still wearing yours, isn't he, Johnny-boy? He likes them, he likes that they used to be yours. Now isn't that sweet._

_But it’s not sweet, is it John?_

_I think you like seeing him in castoffs. Keeps the brat in his place, right? You don't let him drive, never let him take the lead, never let him go off alone. No lies between close friends, we’ve known each other too long for that. We all know why you do it. Keep him all nice and dependent on you for everything._

_But then what happens to poor little orphan Dean-o when you've checked out? Let's find out, shall we?_

  

* * *

  

_October 19th, 2006_

They're just finished up a hunt in Salt Lake - some low level demon, didn't have any intel on Yellow Eyes - when John catches wind of one of the fire kids living in a compound somewhere in southern Utah. They haven't been able to track down all of them, there are a few loose threads; kids that wandered off or ran away and haven't been seen in months or years.

The ones that they have tracked down all fall into one of two camps. Some don't appear to have powers at all, live normal enough lives and look at Dean and John like they're nuts when they ask about a yellow-eyed man and unexplained phenomenon. Others have powers in varying degrees, all different kinds of power from mimicry to straight-up telekinesis.

So far Dean hasn't shown any hints of power, at least none that John can see.

Sam dropped off the map almost eleven months ago, news trickling through in bits and pieces from John's contacts around the country but never anything solid. But from everything John hears, Sam had done exactly what John had been hoping he wouldn't, sliding back into hunting like he'd never left. John sends coordinates, tips off some old contacts with low level hunts, ghosts and skinwalkers, things Sammy can handle on his own without too much trouble. Anything to keep him off the demon's trail. John's never really sure where Sam is, whether he's been following the coordinates John sends him or not, but the only thing he can think is _anywhere but here_. 

Sam is capable, strong, and well trained; he can handle the lesser monsters so long as John can keep him as far away as possible from the demon and the trail of fire kid freaks that he and Dean are chasing.

Aaron Macallister is one of the ones that fell off the map. Hasn't been seen since 2003 and just showed up on an FBI watch list for 'potentially violent cult related activities,' whatever the fuck that means.

"So, aliens or demons?"

"What?"

Two years and John still has trouble following Dean's thought processes sometimes.

"The cult. D'you think they worship aliens or demons?"

"We don't know it's a cult, not yet. Pack up, we're leaving."

The compound is set a ways back from the road, surrounded by dry brush land and a rusted chain link fence. They can't see the house from the street, so John parks the car down the road a bit and they continue on foot.

"Recon, only," he tells Dean, but that doesn't stop either of them from tucking handguns in the back of their jeans.  John catches Dean checking his ankle holster out of the corner of his eye and waves a hand over his shoulder, _move out_. They set out through the brush, careful but not overly so; the fence is rusted through in some places and laying almost completely flat in others. Security doesn't seem high on their list of priorities.

Privacy maybe, but not security.

Aaron Macallister turns out to be a complete nutcase. A nutcase with powers, if the way John's gut is twisting is any way to judge.

"One among us has been unfaithful to the group," Aaron says, standing proud in the center of a large room. "Disloyalty. It spreads like a cancer. Makes us weak from the inside out. And if we are weak, how can we consider ourselves worthy servants of Our Lord?"

He spreads his hands wide, looks around the room with an open, hurt expression. Reeling in his audience and leading them around by the nose. He's damn good at it, too, and John's knuckles go white on the grip of his gun. John may toe the moral line, but there's a difference between a hustle and an outright scam; this isn't just stealing a couple bucks in a game of pool, this is stealing people's lives away from them.

Even crouched outside the cracked open window, John and Dean can feel the ambient temperature drop a few degrees as Aaron lowers his arms.

"Can you feel it?" Aaron asks the room, as if there's any way they couldn't.

The small crowd gasps and shuffles on their feet, drawing together instinctively. No one wants to be singled out. It doesn't help, of course. A young man near the back doubles over in pain, crying out and shaking. Less than ten seconds and his lips start to turn blue. Dean shifts and John holds up a fist to stop him.

They both swear under their breath as the guy crumples to the floor in a heap.

"Our God has spoken, and his justice is swift. Brother Matthew must repent, or he will die."

Three of the followers rush forward to pick him up off the floor, afraid but relieved not to be the one crumpled on the floor. The crowd disperses, people wandering off in in pairs and small groups, all of them deliberately avoiding looking at Matthew shivering and propped up by his friends.

"Bingo," Dean whispers.

"Yeah. We've got to find a way to take him out."

Dean's head whips up at that. "Take him out as in... we're gonna kill him?"

"Hope it doesn't come to that." But if it does, he thinks, if it does they might have to. Aaron is using his power to control people, keeping them in line with fear and violence and cold-blooded murder. John's seen enough to know that sometimes humans can be monsters too. He thought Dean knew it too.

  

* * *

  

Things go to shit quickly, because they always do. They run into a small group of Aaron’s followers in the front hall. John and Dean take out two of them immediately, knocked unconscious and then dragged just out of the way, but a third gets off a shout before John can take him down with a swift hit to temple.

After that, more come running.  Dean is solid at his back, swift and efficient, and the followers aren’t combat trained so it’s easy pickings to start. But there’s two more for every one they take out, and the hallway is too narrow a space for them to fight back to back or side by side without getting in each other’s way.

John fires off a round into the ceiling that sends everyone ducking for cover except Dean, who whips around to glare at him. _Are you nuts?_ He might be.

They use the moment’s distraction to slip through the ranks.  They’re leaving enemies at their six, and it makes John’s neck itch but there’s nothing they can do about it now. If Aaron’s heard the commotion, he’s either coming for them now or he’s booking it out the back door. Either way, they need to find him first.

John takes the lead, leaves Dean to sweep the side rooms they pass along the way. Most of the followers seem to have scattered at the sound of gunfire. He catches Aaron in a garage at the back of the compound, clutching a kid in front of him.

The kid is maybe fourteen and frozen in fear. Maybe literally frozen, when John stops for a second. He’s shivering with cold, all the color drained out of him. When John breathes out, his breath hangs in the air like steam.

“Let him go,” John says.

Aaron twists the kid’s arm, eyes darting around like a trapped animal. John doesn’t lower his weapon, but he does adjust his aim just enough so he’s not pointing the gun directly at Aaron and the kid. He doesn’t want to provoke Aaron, but he’s too dangerous for John to risk disarming completely. He takes a careful step forward.

“You come into my house, _my house_ , hunting my people down - ”

“Aaron, I don’t want anyone to get hurt here - ”

“- turn my people against the true word Our Lord, throw their souls to the pit of fire - ”

John tries for another step, but he’s hurled backwards instead. He hits the doorjamb head first and has to blink a couple times until the room stops spinning.

By the time the stars clear from his eyes, Aaron is nearly out the door. The kid is slumped on the ground, his lips blue and blood running freely out of his ears and eyes.

John squints one eye shut to combat the double-vision and takes aim.

 

* * *

 

Two minutes later Dean won’t stop snapping his fingers in front of John’s face.

"I'm  _fine_ , dammit."

"Sure you are. How many fingers am I holding up?"

John smacks his hand away. Damn kid took his first aid training a little too seriously. Aaron is a bloody mess on the floor and most of his followers have scattered off to god knows where. At least one of them is probably booking it to the police station and they don't have time for this crap. Dean is still fucking around waving his fingers in front of John’s face while John tries to tug the rag out of his back pocket.

 _Recon only, my ass,_ John thinks as he stumbles to his feet and starts wiping down the door handle, the window frame; anything and everything he and Dean might've touched.  Fuck, they'll probably have police sketches of both of them circulating on the news by the end of the day.

They've got to burn the body. Wipe their prints, burn the body, and get the fuck out of here. Go off the grid for a while until the manhunt cools down, Bobby's got an old cabin out in Missouri, 'bout an hour off of I-44 or was it I-55. One of those.

Christ, it's hard to think.

Aaron’s brain matter is decorating the walls, Matthew is a human popsicle, and there’s a kid lying dead in the garage. They can't carry the bodies out, there's not enough time and no way to get rid of all the other evidence. Can he really remember every place he and Dean touched in that last thirty minutes?

"Dean, sweep the house and make sure everyone is out. You take first floor I'll take second. Check everywhere."

"Why?"

"'Cause we gotta burn it down."

"Shit."

Paranoid little shit that he was, Aaron had stocked the basement with enough gas tanks for the backup generator to blow the whole house sky high. With any luck he and Dean will go down as missing presumed dead. Dean jerry-rigs a fuse and John sweeps the house one more time looking for stragglers. God knows he doesn't want any more human blood on his hands, not today.

And then they're running, the ground beneath him swelling and tilting at all odd angles and every footfall seems to catch him by surprise. Dean's too quick for his own good sometimes, John definitely has a concussion. That's not important right now.

They've barely reached the tree-line when the blast hits, a shock that runs through all of John's senses and makes his head pulse so hard his vision grays out. Dean grabs him by the sleeve of his jacket and drags him down into the brush, mostly safe from debris and hopefully out of sight. Dean's grip doesn't let up and they both stay crouched down and scanning the horizon for any signs they've been spotted.

"We gotta go," John says and tries to pry Dean's fingers off his jacket.

"Actually, what we gotta do is stop somewhere and make sure your brain isn't swelling out of your ears, you fucking idiot."

"Dean," John shoots for that one tone of voice that's never failed to get Dean to hop to, but maybe his head is a little more scrambled than he thought because Dean just stares back at him defiantly.

"We gotta go, now.” John tries again. “First thing the cops are gonna do when they get here is set up a perimeter and no one's getting in or out of that without some serious questioning. Any one of those idiot followers can finger us as the bad guys. You can poke at my head all you want later, right now we have to _move_."

Dean swears and rubs a hand over his eyes, trying to wipe the dust away. The air is getting thick and gritty with displaced dust and smoke, and John has to pull his collar up over his mouth to stop from coughing. Dean meets his eyes and nods, pulling his t-shirt up over his own mouth and setting off through the brush.

They move quickly but not quietly; the roar of the fire behind him and the scream of police sirens drowns out any noise they might make. It's not like either of them can really tell either, eardrums still ringing from the blast and John can feel a thin trickle of blood running down his neck.

He has no idea how long it takes him, time stretches out like molasses and every time he blinks he feels like he's missed something. One of Dean's hands is twisted up in the back of John's shirt, the other resting lightly on his shoulder and John tells himself it's because Dean needs the support.

"Think we can risk it?" Dean asks in a hoarse whisper when they reach the Impala.

It's a stupid risk but that car is packed full of guns, fake IDs, and a whole boatload of other stuff the police should never see.

"Got to. Not gonna get very far on foot."

John doesn't object when Dean shoves him into the passenger's seat, but he does wish to god he'd given the boy some actual driving lessons before now. What in the hell was he thinking, assuming that they'd never get into a position like this where Dean had to drive?

John’s hands are clumsy and stupid flipping open the glove compartment, even worse at trying to sort out the pile of hunting licenses he's got stashed away in there. He squints and grinds his teeth to block out the looming migraine, finally finds the one for Utah and shoves it in his wallet. Better safe than sorry.

"Anyone asks," John says as Dean fumbles the keys into the ignition, "it's father son bonding time, out hunting deer. I lost my balance when the explosion hit and fell down a slope." The cover makes him sound like a fucking idiot, but a fucking idiot is better than a dangerous idiot when you're talking to the cops.

"Right. And anyone asks we know nothing about Aaron or his freaky cult followers and _by golly_ what was that big noise we heard?"

"Yep," John mutters back as his eyes slip closed.

Dean smacks him on the shoulder. "Dude, concussion, remember? No sleeping."

"Keep your eyes on the road, dammit. One scratch and you're detailing her under my supervision for the rest of your damn life."

It's not really much of a punishment, Dean likes detailing the Impala. Washing her, fixing her up. Always under John's supervision, and it's not like he'd trust his baby to just anyone. His baby… He can still remember Mary’s face the day they'd brought Sammy home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When John wakes up, he isn't himself.

He yells himself hoarse inside of his own head, batters against the walls of his flesh and blood prison but can't move a muscle. He watches himself respond lazily to Dean's prodding, attentive and obedient as ever - waking him up every thirty minutes to make sure he's alright. He can't make his mouth work to tell Dean it's already too late.

The drive takes hours, and even with John slipping in and out of consciousness he knows it hasn't been long enough for them to be at Bobby's already, especially with Dean sticking to the backroads and actually obeying the speed limits to avoid run-ins with the police.

Some other place then - squatting in some family vacation cabin out in the middle of nowhere which would be fine, except Bobby's cabin is filled with all kinds of useful tools and wards. Here, John's going to be stuck making do with what he has on him. And he still can't move his own fucking hands.

They stumble inside, Dean picking the lock and lugging the bag while John sways on his feet. He doesn't feel unsteady, whatever is pulling the strings is doing this on purpose. Fucking with John to put Dean off guard and _dammit, Dean_. Why isn’t he checking? Why hasn’t he noticed?

John sits at the rickety kitchen table while Dean checks him out, fingers brushing gently over the lump on the back of his head that John can barely feel anymore. His head is still throbbing along with the rest of his body, but it's far off. Unimportant. When he comes to he's slumped down on a couch, no memory of how he got there.

Dean is sitting ramrod straight on the floor, keeping himself awake to watch over John and the kid must feel beat to hell but John can't help his rage. Dean should know better, John trained him better than this. Where are the salt lines, the hex bags...hell, where's the damn holy water? John needs to douse himself in the stuff and let the steam pour off, proof positive so Dean can get his ass in gear.

John can't turn his head to check for salt lines, and it wouldn't matter if they were there anyway.  The devil's already inside.

 

* * *

 

The next time John wakes up, it's morning. He groans and rubs his head and it's still not him in the driver's seat. Dean is clanking around in the kitchen, comes in with a mug of coffee that John chugs down without registering the heat or the taste.

"How you feeling, princess?"

"Fantastic," his mouth moves without his permission. "Where th' fuck are we?"

"The ass end of nowhere. 'Bout an hour outside of Grand Junction." Dean takes back the empty mug, handling him with kid gloves when he should be armed to goddamn teeth. "Figured we'd hole up here for a bit. Cabin's got a radio, so we can check on news updates."

"Anything yet?"

"Nah. Reports on the explosion, yeah, but nothing on us. You want food?"

John knows that's not really what he's asking. More like, _Can you keep it down?_ The answer doesn't matter, because his body says, "Yes," all on its own.

The canned soup is barely warm and bland, heated on the crappy little electric stove in the cabin and served up with one of those snack sized packages of dry crackers. "Where the hell'd you learn to cook?"

"Didn't," Dean says without missing a beat.

"We got any new credit cards coming in?"

Dean looks at him, assessing. "You don't remember?"

"Maybe I shouldn't have to do all the damn work all the time. It's a simple question Dean, or are you really that useless?"

Dean flinches. It's a tiny movement, but John knows him too well to miss it. Something inside him swells up at the sight, darkness unfurling and seeping around the edges. Excitement.

"Geez, sorry. Uh, yeah. I think we should have some at the PO box out in Boulder."

"Good."

  

* * *

 

 

_November 4th, 2006_

_He won't notice, I know that's what you've been hoping. Because I know you, I've been watching you ever since I stopped by to visit little baby Sammy. Not all the time, of course. Places to go, people to kill, you understand how it is._

_But I know you, and I definitely know our Dean. That boy worships the ground you walk on, but he's not going to notice._

_And do you know why?_

_Because he wants this, and he knows he’s not worth anything better._

  

* * *

 

October 30th, 2006

Time passes like John is living in a stop motion camera, moving ahead in jerks and starts with nothing but darkness to fill in the blanks. They spend a week hiding out at the cabin with the radio on full time, scanning the only three stations that come in clearly and listening for reports on the mysterious explosion in the backwoods of Utah.

The witnesses must not be talking or the cops are holding out on the reporters, because there's no mention of a manhunt or PSAs about any suspects matching their description. But there are plenty of reports about Aaron Macallister's troubled past and apparent descent into madness. Dean looks relieved that they dodged a bullet. John tries to clench his hands into fists and watches as his fingers stay perfectly still.

 

* * *

 

 

It's only about a half day's drive to Boulder. Less, the way John drives. And John hates that the demon is right, but it does drive just like him, even with John on high alert for the smallest hint of evidence that Dean might pick up on, he catches nothing. Muscles shift and flex in those old familiar patterns and his hands are casual on the wheel. There's no reason for Dean to notice, no chance of fighting it off even if he did.

_How did you get in, you bastard?_

_Now, John. That's no way to talk to company, is it?_

_Fuck off. You can't have him._

_You have so much to learn, my boy. He's already mine._

_Bullshit._

_So much anger, Johnny-boy. You should be more careful about that, it scares Dean. You didn't really think he obeyed you just out of respect, did you? But that's not the point. He is mine, just as much as sweet little Nimmi, or Ryan, or Aaron. I liked Aaron. You really shouldn't have killed him, he had such promise. And now you've really caught my attention, which is too bad because now I see Dean hasn't been meeting his deadlines like all the other good little toy soldiers._

  

* * *

 

_July 2006_

John finds out about Daniel Elkin's murder through a letter they pick up at the Boulder PO Box.

"Bad news?" Dean asks.

"Daniel Elkins is dead. I knew him." It's all the same words, everything John would say but it's not John saying it. Then it reads the rest of the letter.

 _Sonovabitch, he had it all along,_ John thinks.

The demon tsks. _You've been holding out on me, John._

"Sonovabitch, he had it all along," it says out loud.

"Had what?"

"Nothing. We're heading down to Manning."

"O-okay then."

They don't find the Colt at Elkins place. They spend an hour searching through the wreckage and all they find is the empty antique case.

"Coroner's report sounds like vampires. Why are we looking for this gun, anyway?"

"You don't need to know why, so quit asking. We've gotta find the nest, they must have taken it."

Dean shuts up quick and they head out to the nearest bar.

Two days later they're banged up and bloody but they've got the gun. John is sitting in one of the corner booths, watching Dean and his mind running in circles. Something has the demon's panties in a twist about the gun. John knows why _he_ wants the damn thing, but can't figure out why the hell the demon is chasing it too.

Gunning for another demon, trying to tip the pecking order? He only has a blurry idea of the hierarchy, not much more than a sliding scale based on M.O. and eye color.

He doesn't care. Yellow Eyes doesn’t need a special gun to hurt Sam, and even if it did - its had plenty of chances to kill him already.  Cold comfort but it's better than nothing. As far as he can tell it just likes fucking with Dean. Screwing him up, twisting his thoughts to something dirty and wrong to get a cheap fucking thrill. Like right now.

Dean is leaning against the bar, probably tired as all hell and aching from the fight but smiling all the same. John doesn't remember much of the fight, but he's willing to bet the demon didn’t help out all that much.

"We're low on funds," it'd whispered to Dean before they'd gone in separately. "Distract 'em a bit, eh? And not that half-assed shit you usually pull."

Dean had looked slightly taken aback but didn’t comment. John's usually the one reeling Dean in from taking stupid chances for a hustle, sometimes John thinks Dean is convinced he's fucking invincible. Like if John's at his back then nothing bad can happen.

_Sorry, kid._

And Jesus, but Dean is working it tonight. John swears Dean never usually follows his orders so eagerly, not without at least a little backtalk first. John would just ignore it, used to watching Dean flirt about as much as he breathes but the demon won't fucking shut up.  Endless fucking commentary running at full speed.

Dean is leaning over the table way farther than is necessary to take a shot; it's the most obvious move in the book but John swears every schmuck in the bar is drooling for it. Dean shifts his hips and takes the shot, biting his lower lip in feigned concentration. An hour passes in a blur of tight jeans hugging the curve of Dean's ass and wandering hands drifting over his back, his arms, his stomach.

_You're a lucky man, John. You knows what's pathetic? He's doing it for you, all for you. He's not a whore, or well - it chuckles - not anymore I guess and more's the shame. Think how sweet it'd be, he'd spread his legs for anyone on your say so, let himself get fucked raw just because you asked._

_He wouldn't_ , John snaps and immediately regrets it.

_Wanna bet?_

John tries to deny it; lashes out and heaves against the weight of the thing inside him until he starts to slip away, awareness fading to the background. But he can't go, can't let Dean face this alone even if he can't do anything to stop it.

It nods to Dean - the signal to leave, a sizable lump of cash on the table and most of the bar knows better than to challenge Dean by now. It doesn't stop them from offering; more than willing to sacrifice some cash so they can catch a feel. Dean eyes the cash uncertainly and then nods back at John, it's nearly twice the size of their usual haul and John can tell from across the room that Dean was hoping to get more.

 _So eager to please_ , it says and John feels his face twist into a wicked grin.

 _Don't, please._ John never thought he'd beg a demon for anything.

They leave separately and meet up in the parking lot. Dean hands over the cash and John doesn't miss the twitch in his jaw or the way he wipes his hands shakily down the back of his jeans. John’s hands thumb through the money, a sick combination of disinterest and glee coming off the demon in waves.

The demon’s good mood has nothing at all to do with the cash.

  

* * *

 

_November 2nd, 2006_

_Now, Dean? He's one of my favorites. But Houston we have a problem, because Dean-o hasn't shown a lick of super special power yet has he? You've been watching for it and I know you haven't seen anything, what with me being right up in your paranoid little head._

_He's a promising young boy, a good little soldier. But sometimes even good little soldiers need a bit of a **push**. _

  

* * *

 

_November 1st, 2006_

"See any good marks back there?" It asks.

Dean raises his eyebrows and nods towards the cash, but that's not the kind of mark the demon is talking about.

"I meant," it talks slowly, like it's explaining things to a small child. "The kind of marks you'd take if you were flying solo. This is a decent haul - " it holds up the cash, "but let's face it, it'll only last us a week, maybe two tops."

Dean exhales slowly, eyes wide; hurt and little bit angry. "You're kidding."

It shrugs. "I wish I was."

"You told me I wasn't supposed to anymore. You- "

"Forget it, this'll have to do for now. Get in the car."

Dean obeys.

Another week and a half goes by and they're patching up from another hunt (or, Dean is and the demon is pretending to) when Dean grabs his jacket and leaves with a mumbled, "Goin' out."

"Hold up," it grates out in John's command-voice. "Where're you going?"

"Out." Dean turns around but he's still half out the door, hands wrapped around the frame.

" _Where_ , Dean?"

Dean's eyes drop to the floor, from defiant to defeated in three seconds flat. John hates him like this, wants _his_ Dean back; tough and cocky and smart mouth running all the damn time.

"Thought I'd earn us some cash." He shrugs, fake casual that doesn't fool anyone.

"No."

"Come again?"

"No. Now get back in here."

"I thought you wanted- "

"I think we can both agree it's better when we don't rely on you for the thinking."

Dean drops his jacket on a chair and sinks down on one of the beds, hands folded in front of him and one knee jiggling with badly contained energy and nerves. He's flushed; embarrassed and angry but he's not saying a damn thing about it and John is losing hope that he ever will.

_I hate to say it, but your boy is kind of a pushover, John. Nothing like our Sammy._

_You don't know shit about either of them_ , John spits back and feels like a rottweiler trapped in a muzzle. Can't even bark.

"Dean," it sighs, "I was kidding the other night. I thought it was obvious."

"No offense, but your sense of humor fucking sucks sometimes."

 _Fuck yes it does,_  John thinks, vinegar and spite the only weapons he's got left.

_Would you rather I tear your boy open and use his entrails as party streamers? No? Then you should probably keep nice and quiet, John._

"If I want you to do something, I'll say so. Got it? You're not going out hooking tonight." It pulls it off surprisingly well, this gruff mockery of concern. But both of them notice the emphasis on that last word.

Foregone conclusion, if it asks then Dean'll do it, because he does anything John asks and that's never been a bad thing up until now. The demon wants to pick his marks, have control over even that small liberty for Dean.

John isn't sure why it hasn't followed through with the threat. A second later, he is.

"Can't have you fucking your way through all of Peoria, not right now anyway. We've got a job out in Salvation."

  

* * *

 

The only thing John knows when he wakes up is that something bad went down. There's a static charge in the air, something he's come to recognize through the chaos of war and the bloody aftermath of a hunt gone wrong. Dean isn't anywhere around. John grasps at bits of memory and comes up with _motel_ and _bury him in research_ and is relieved even though he's walking past the wail of sirens and away from a house on fire.

But that's behind him, and Dean is somewhere up ahead.

It wants to push Dean, and it wants John awake to see it.

"So," it says as it steps in the door, no way to tell how far he's walked or how long it's been, life just slips on by. "Demon's been here."

Dean's got the heel of one hand digging into his eye socket, probably trying to shove away a migraine, but his head whips up at the sound of John's voice like someone tugged an invisible string. "Here? Right now?"

"Earlier tonight. Took out a family over by the river." It sighs and shrugs off John's coat, tired and beat down.

"What do we do? Is there- Do we shadow the family? You think it's coming back?"

"Family's dead, Dean. Their little girl survived, found by the firefighters just in time." _Because I left her right at the top of the steps all nice and easy. Poor mommy and daddy didn't make it though. Natural selection, what can you do?_

"Is she okay?"

"The girl? She'll live. Her parents are dead, and you know why?" It doesn't give Dean a chance to answer. "Because we were too fucking slow to stop it. Have you gotten anywhere with the research?"

Dean fumbles. Of course he does, the research is a wild goose chase and the demon knows it. It wants to watch Dean squirm, and Dean doesn't disappoint. He mumbles out something in the negative.

"Dammit, kid. This is the big leagues, we don't have time for amateur hour.  If you're not going to take this seriously, then I don't need you."

"I am taking this seriously! What, you think you're the only one who got their life screwed to hell by this thing? Boo fucking hoo, you lost your wife - at least you still had Sam. Not that that means anything to you," Dean spits out, hands clutching the table.John wants to be happy for this defiance, but he can feel the demon goading him along, wanting this. Wanting more than just this.

"Poor little Dean, ran away from foster mommy and daddy because they were mean to him. How'd that work out for you, champ? How many men did you suck off and tell yourself you were just doing it for the money?"

It steps closer, looming over Dean who's hunched over and already half out of his seat.

"Because you had a choice, didn't you? There's always a choice. Could've stayed in the system for three more years and been free to do as you please, with an actual high school diploma to boot. But no, you _wanted_ to be the cheap fuck in the bathroom stall, didn't you?"

Dean sinks back down slowly; not any less angry but still trying to diffuse the situation, so desperate to stay.

"Shut up," Dean says. He means it like an order but it comes out like a plea.

"It's okay, Dean." It takes those last few steps, close enough now to see the fine tremors of Dean's hands resting on the table. "I don't blame you for it. You just did what you had to, right?"

One hand creeps up, slides across Dean's back and settles on his shoulder. Dean is strung tight, hurt and furious.

"Yeah. So did you, I get it." Dean swallows. "I'm sorry."

"That's okay," it says, gently squeezing Dean's shoulder. John can remember doing exactly this every time Sammy got sick or hurt.

John's body walks over to the other side of the table, picking through the stacks of research Dean has spent all day digging around in. Dean watches him for a few silent minutes, and then goes back to his reading. The demon pretends to read as well, watching the tick of Dean's jaw and the twitch of his eyebrows as he pours over the new articles.

"This happened before," Dean says in a hushed voice, a solitary moment of realization when everyone else in the room already knows. From the looks of what he's reading, he's caught on to the electrical storms and fires in the 70s. "What happened to these kids then? They're older, they should have some clue, some..." Dean pushes around stacks of newspapers and printouts, digging out a blank pad of paper and copying name for name the list that John had been trying so hard to hide from him.

It smiles proudly. "We'll have to call around and get the records faxed tomorrow."

Dean nods absently, still scrawling down names and dates. It leans back in the chair, fingers laced together and head tipped back. Casual. "Finish that and get to bed. None of the offices are going to be open now anyway, and it sounds like tomorrow's gonna be a busy day."

"Yessir," Dean answers without bothering to look up. He's been doing that more and more lately and it irritates the hell out of John. He knows full well the kid respects him, Dean wouldn't still be here if he didn't. But the demon perks up a little every time he hears it and anything the demon likes is something that John can't stand.

_I do believe I have miscalculated. You should appreciate this, John. It doesn't happen often._

_Your boy just bends and bends and he doesn't break, but he never really pushes back either, does he? He doesn't have that same fire in his belly that Sammy has, and I need that. Maybe I should introduce them, set up a little meet and greet for our boys and see if maybe we can get them to share some of their- ah, better qualities? I could, you know._

_I know where Sam is._

John snaps.

Dean walks out of the bathroom just then, ratty t-shirt and old sweats that have been through so many washes that any color they once had is now unrecognizable.

"Dean-" John says, and for the first time in weeks he feels his own mouth form the word, desperate and barely audible.

"Yeah?" Dean looks up, alarmed. "What's up, you okay?"

Dean's forehead wrinkles in confusion, eyes scanning up and down for injury and then flicking away to check the salt lines automatically. John barely has a second of control and coherence enough to think _good boy_ before he's shoved back again.

The salt lines are there, all right. Dean poured them himself as soon as they were inside. John realized too late that salt lines don't do jack shit against Yellow Eyes.

"I'm fine," it says. "Just tired of swapping out for the couch. It's hell on my back." It's not any less hell for Dean; without reliable backup from John on their last hunt he'd been chucked ass over teakettle into a granite headstone.

"I can take the couch from now on, I don't mind," Dean says.

"Bed's big enough for two."

"Oh. Uh, yeah."

And God help them both, because Dean looks just a little bit hopeful at that. He tries to cover it up with a casual shrug, but neither John nor the demon miss the way his lips part just a little and he pointedly doesn't meet John's eyes.

 _It knows where Sam is, it knows_ , is what keeps pounding like a drumbeat in the back of John's mind and Dean is standing right here in front of him, unarmed and only half dressed. He hasn't even got any shoes or socks on and John fixates on that. Kid can't run off into the woods to get away if he doesn't have his shoes on.

John can take control. He did it once, one shining moment of freedom and if he can just focus he knows he can do it again. Get Dean out of here, and then do whatever the fuck he has to to get rid of this sonuvabitch.

 _Not so fast, John_. It whispers to him. _First I want to have a little snuggle time with your boy._

 _Why?_ He throws back.

_Because I can. And because I really, really want your boy to learn how to say 'no.' That's a good thing, isn't it? See, we don't have to be enemies, John. I'm just trying to teach him a lesson._

"Come on," it says to Dean, reaching around and pushing a hand against Dean's lower back. Right against the dark purple bruising John knows is there. Dean flinches at the touch but walks forward anyway, climbs into bed without protesting. The demon strips off John's jeans and his shirt, flicks off the lights and climbs in next to Dean.

It doesn't do anything right away. John lets the tension build, waiting to snap; hoping and praying to snap. Last time he'd had word, Sam had been in Colorado, nearly two months ago now. Best case scenario, Sammy's being watched. Worst case? He's been taken, possessed, god knows what. Sammy might in enemy hands and Dean is a hair's breadth away from spreading and letting this fucker take anything it wants. And John is powerless to stop any of it.

Coming to the surface this time is like drifting through smog, just a vague feeling of movement and dark indistinct surroundings until he snaps back to consciousness and feels his hand stroking down Dean's back. He stops.

"You have to leave," John pushes out. He could lose control any second and he has to make Dean understand. "Leave now. It's the demon, Dean I can't -"

Dean makes a sleepy noise, pushes up on his arms and squints blearily at John.

John gets shoved back again. Not as far this time, and not as strong. So close to the surface it almost hurts not to be able to move. He can feel his hand trailing farther down Dean's back, fingers pressing right into the crease of his ass, the twitch of Dean's muscles as he tries to hold still.

"Hmm?" Dean asks, confused but a little more awake now.

"Shh."

John's hand moves back up, fingers catching in the soft fabric as he watches Dean turn away; eyes closed, forehead pressed to the sheets and his shoulders pulled up tight. Dean's skin is soft and still warm from the shower, getting warmer as his hand slips under the hem of Dean's sweatpants and his fingers sink right back to where they'd just been, no fabric now to separate them from Dean's bare skin.

"I don't -" Dean shifts down on the bed, away from John's hand but not far enough. _Goddammit, Dean_. John pleads and pushes out, feels his fingers just barely twitch in response against Dean's lower back. He’s so close to the surface but it's not enough. The demon steals back control, strokes over Dean’s ass and then presses his hand down hard, right onto the mottled bruising on his back. Dean cries out and tries to twist away.

It moves too fast for John to track. The demon shoves his hand down one more time, drawing another cry from Dean and then sinks back. John is back in control; barely has time to wonder if he should back the fuck off or grab Dean to keep him from falling off the bed before Dean grates out in a tone John doesn't even recognize -

" _Don't touch me._ "

And now the demon isn’t the one in control, but suddenly John isn’t in control either. His hand snaps back like it’s being yanked by a string before he can even process the words.

"Don't touch me," Dean repeats, his tone different and less certain than it was just seconds ago.

John slams his eyes shut, starts what he should have been able to do weeks ago.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus -"

" _I'm not done yet, Johnny-boy_!" The demon slams to the forefront so hard it leaves John dizzy, only vaguely aware of Dean cursing and scrambling backwards off the bed.  He catches on quickly enough now that he's with the fucking program.

But "omnis satanica -" is all Dean can get out before he flies back against the wall, pinned there by an invisible force. The demon rolls off the bed gracefully and steps over to Dean, standing eye to eye.

"Aw sweetheart," it whispers, "don't be like that. You're my favorite. Well, next to Sammy.

“And there's no need to use such foul language. All I want to do is try a little experiment. Your initial results look very promising, young man," it says like a concerned school teacher. "So lets try that again."

John can see how Dean is struggling and trying to speak. An exorcism takes too damn long for either of them to manage, even working together and John thinks the Colt is probably tucked away in his duffel. But even if one of them could get to it, Dean doesn't even know what the Colt can do. As far as Dean knows, shooting a demon will only piss it off, not to mention put a hole in John.

John watches his own hands come up to bracket Dean's hips, thumbs slipping just underneath his t-shirt and digging into Dean’s stomach.

"You can talk Dean, say anything you like."

It pulls Dean's sweatpants down slowly, staring straight into his eyes and daring him to object.

"Stop, please," he begs weakly, but the demon shakes his head.

"No no no, are you asking me or telling me? Try again, this time with feeling." On the last word it digs his nails into tender skin, fingers curled like claws.

Dean sucks in a breath, eyebrows pulling together mouth scrunched up. John knows that expression, sees it every time they’re on a hunt that’s gone wrong; when they're down to their last round and running out of options fast. It's the second right before Dean's mind flips into overdrive and he pulls some crazy and dangerous stunt that only works because God loves fools. Something clicks.

" _Get off me._ "

John’s body jerks back and the demon grins.

"Much better. I always said you were a quick study. Now, I'm going to give you some time to practice with that and I'll see you again," - it winks - "real soon."

John isn't aware of much after that. It leaves him, he feels it rushing out; pulling and tearing him apart from inside as it floods out of his throat and the feeling seems to go on forever. When he can think again, he blinks down at the floor and stares until it stops graying in and out on him. He looks up at Dean, standing with his hands braced against the wall and his sweatpants still pulled down obscenely low on his thighs.

"How long?" Dean asks shakily.

John has to swallow a few times to get his throat working again. The words come out raspy and thick. "Since Utah."

 _"...Fuck._ "

"Yeah."

John looks away, stays down on his knees because Dean looks like any sudden movements will send him running. "Pull your pants back up."

He can't help watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean complies, flushed red and uncomfortable. "I didn't imagine that did I?"

"Try it."

"It said it wants me practicing, should I really -"

"Try it. Just this once, just so we know for sure."

" _Come here_ ," Dean says, and the world tilts and slides out of focus as John stands up and steps forward without meaning to.

Dean wipes his palms down the front of his sweatpants, mouth hanging open and eyes wide.  John has to close his eyes and dig his fingernails into his palms to stay awake and upright.

Eventually Dean breaks the silence.  "Okay. Right so, that happened."

"We need to leave. It knows we're here, we need to leave."

Dean is nodding, edging around the room and shoving his feet into his sneakers without bothering to change. He's staying as far away from John as he can but both of them ignore it for now. They’ve got bigger things to worry about right now. Sam.

"We've gotta find Sammy.” John says. “It said it knows where he is, either it's watching him or it's got him. We have to find him."

John grabs his jeans from the floor and pulls them on, feels itchy in his own skin knowing barely minutes ago the demon had stripped them off and left them there. They don't have time for this. He rips through his duffel looking for the Colt. Pulls everything out and shakes it down. It’s gone.

"Where's the gun?"

"The one Elkins had?"

"Yes, the _Colt_. Where is it?"

"You-  He took it with him back in Salvation." Dean shrugs, "I haven't seen it since."

"Fuck."

"What's the big deal with the - "

"Fuck! That gun was all we had." John takes a deep breath and stares up at the ceiling. He has to make Dean understand, half this fucking mess is his fault for not keeping Dean in the loop and he knows it. "Samuel Colt made that gun back in 1835. Legend says it can kill anything."

"Anything as in _our kind_ of anything?"

"Yeah. Demon's got it stashed somewhere in Salvation, or handed it off to an underling or something. Shit." His head is spinning and his mouth feels dry. "I've gotta find Sam first."  He pauses, no easy way to ask this.  "You still with me?"

Dean hesitates. "Christo."

John meets his eyes and doesn't flinch.

"I'm with you."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and concrit are very much welcome! I am still in need of a beta for the newer parts of the series if anyone is interested, please let me know!


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